train there.”
“What are we supposed to do, swim?” Holliday asked.
“You didn’t study Russian geography in school the way we Habaneros did.” Eddie grinned. “It is the Volga. We will find a boat there; I guarantee it.”
“Lead the way,” said Holliday. They climbed out of the ditch, ducked under the farmer’s fence and headed for the distant river.
* * *
Whit Havers knocked on Assistant Deputy Director of National Security J. Hunter Kokum’s office door-located directly across from General Temple’s own office on the main floor of the West Wing-then stepped inside. Kokum, thin and gray, sat behind his desk, flipping through red-tabbed security reports, his trademark scowl on his face.
“What?” Kokum asked without looking up.
“Report on Black Tusk,” said Whit, using the appropriate code name pulled from the classified security computer file for the present operation in Russia.
“Any word?”
“Yes, sir, the asset was contacted in Amsterdam and agreed to take on the contract. Assuming that the targets would not be using regular air transport to reach their destination, he waited in the appropriate Moscow train station for the targets to appear.”
“And did they?”
“Yes, sir, at approximately seventeen hundred hours local time yesterday. They purchased a second-class compartment and boarded the train a few moments before it was to depart.”
“The asset is traveling with them?”
“No, sir. He saw them onto the train and then flew on ahead. He’s already in Yekaterinburg.”
“And if the targets leave the train before then?”
“Yekaterinburg is their destination one way or the other. It doesn’t really matter how they get there.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself, Havers.”
“It’s logical, sir.”
“When you’ve done this for as long as I have you’ll come to understand that logic has very little to do with intelligence matters.”
“Yes, sir,” said Whit.
“What about Ducos?” Kokum asked. “You have the Frenchman under surveillance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he up to?”
“He appears to have gone on vacation, sir.”
“Where?”
“A town at the edge of the Pyrenees. A little village with an old castle on a hill. Montsegur, I think it’s called.”
“Find out about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Enjoying your first assignment as a case officer, Mr. Havers?”
“Yes, sir,” Whit answered-what the hell else was he supposed to say?
“Know why we have case officers for projects like this, Mr. Havers?”
“To oversee the operation,” answered Whit.
“That’s part of it, certainly, but it’s not the most important part, Havers.”
“No, sir?”
“No, Havers. The real reason is to have someone to flush down the shithole when the whole thing comes apart.”
Yevgeni Ivanovich Barsukov, imprisoned head of the notorious Tambov Gang of St. Petersburg, lounged in his cell at Vladimir Central Prison, smoking a British Senior Service cigarette and reading an American edition of
On the table beside his comfortable upholstered chair was a large goblet of freshly squeezed orange juice and a lightly toasted English muffin slathered with butter and Dutriez Bar-le-Duc red currant jam.
At fifty-eight, Barsukov looked at least fifteen years younger. His graying hair was dyed the same brown it had been all his life, his neatly trimmed mustache and Vandyke beard colored to match.
He wore contact lenses rather than submit to spectacles, and although he had thickened slightly through the middle during his time in jail, he worked out several times a week and lifted weights on occasion. It was hot in the cell, and Barsukov was stripped to the waist, the five stars tattooed on each shoulder and the large crucifix across his chest clearly visible. Even if an inmate had never met Barsukov, the tattoos would tell the man that Barsukov was “prince of thieves,” a man of great power and position.
The cell was large, twenty feet by thirty or so, with four tall windows facing east. Most cells at Vladimir contained six inmates, but Barsukov shared with only one other, Sergei Magnitsky, his bodyguard and private chef. At the moment Magnitsky was preparing Barsukov’s breakfast of oladyi pancakes and sausages with a pair of George Foreman grills kept on one of the broad concrete windowsills.
Barsukov was serving a fourteen-year sentence for fraud and money laundering. Magnitsky had been convicted of no crime but had simply joined his boss in prison out of choice. In fact, both Barsukov and Magnitsky had committed murder many times over during the course of the last twenty-five years, but neither man had ever been convicted.
By Western standards, Barsukov’s lifestyle seemed wildly at odds with being incarcerated in what was without a doubt the most dangerous and violent prison in the Russian Federation, but Barsukov was more than the leader of a major gang outside the prison-he held the unofficial rank of
As Magnitsky waited for the sausages to cook he brought his boss a fresh cup of his preferred dark arabica coffee. Barsukov took an approving sip, then placed the cup on the side table beside his goblet of orange juice. He butted his cigarette, picked a fleck of tobacco from his lower lip, then took up his cell phone. From memory he dialed a number; he was old-guard, rarely writing anything down, and never committing a name or a number to the memory of an electronic device. The line rang twice before it was answered.
“I am looking for Father Deacon Ivan Yevseyevich Veniamino; is he there? No? Then perhaps you can give him a message for me; my name is Vladimir from St. Petersburg. That’s right. Please tell Father Deacon Veniamino that the bells should be rung in turns tonight. Yes; the bells should be rung in turns.”
He flipped off the phone and dropped it onto the table. Magnitsky would take it apart and dispose of it later.
“Come on, Sergei, those sausages must be done by now.”
“Coming right up, boss.”
It took them the better part of an hour to reach the shallow banks of the wide, slow-moving river, and another twenty minutes to find a short, waterlogged pier jutting drunkenly out into the water, built on rusted, half- submerged fifty-gallon drums. A long, high-prowed rowboat was tied up loosely to the pier. Several inches of water in the bottom of the boat smelled of old fish and dead worms, but it seemed solid enough. There was a wooden box of fishing tackle-very heavy line, big three-barbed hooks and below-the-surface floaters. There were also two pairs of heavy work gloves in the box and a ball-peen hammer, probably for killing whatever fish they caught.
“Sturgeon poachers,” said Eddie. “We read about them in school. They fish for the big female sturgeon, then dye the eggs black to make look like beluga caviar from the Caspian Sea. Fish can be an easy hundred pounds, even more.”
Eddie sat down at the oars, and Holliday unlooped the rope from the pier, then settled down by the transom. Both men pushed off, and in a few moments they were well out into the swirling currents of the dark river, Eddie doing little more than guiding their passage. The river was quiet as they moved through the early-morning mist, the
